Troop Sergeant (with sudden emotion). Look at your neck, Number Ten. I ask you, look at the back of your neck.
[Number Ten, feeling that this is a difficult feat to perform at any time and quite impossible when lying on his back, continues to gaze upwards, conscious of insubordination.
Troop Sergeant. Why is it twisted like that? A bone out of place, the doctors will tell you. But (solemnly) WHY is it out of place, I ask you? Tell me that. Want of hoxygen—that's what it is. It's as plain as day.
[Enter Troop Officer.
Troop Officer (explosively). A-tssh! Code id by head, Sergeadt.
Troop Sergeant. Ah, Sir, if you was to do these breathing exercises you wouldn't 'ave no colds, Sir. If everyone was to do these exercises there wouldn't be no doctors, Sir. It's only want of hoxygen that makes people ill. There isn't a man in this troop's 'ad a cold since we began, Sir.
Numbers Five, Seven and Nine (surreptitiously). A-tissh!
[The Troop Sergeant is about to ignore this breach of discipline when Number Three, who has been trying to repress a sneeze while inhaling through the nose and at the same time carrying the legs to a vertical position above the body, explodes violently.
Troop Sergeant (ominously). Number Three!
Number Three (weakly). Yes, Sergeant.